


Sweet Days (series #3): Collection #4

by sweepeaspatch



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27542677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweepeaspatch/pseuds/sweepeaspatch
Summary: Free Fall:  more stories of unending love
Relationships: Camille Bordey/Richard Poole
Comments: 13
Kudos: 14





	1. Shower Scene 3

**Author's Note:**

> Stories:  
> 1\. Shower Scene 3  
> 2\. Christmas Story 2020  
> 3\. Tsunami  
> ...WiP...

Shower Scene 3  
_Oh, Lord! Not again!_ a wet naked Richard Poole screams silently as, once more, mid-day, totally without warning, his back door crashes open and the heavy authoritative tread of the Commissioner is heard again. The Detective Inspector has just enough time to turn off the shower, frantically wipe water out of his eyes, and scramble into a towel before the big man marches up the kitchen steps and into view. 

As he twists the hapless towel around his hips, DI Poole decides he’s had enough invasions for one day and steps angrily into his bathroom doorway, forestalling whatever proclamation of doom his boss is about to utter with a testy utterance of his own! “Sir!! I really must protest most strenuously!” he gripes. “My days off are so few and I must insist they be honoured! Can’t one of my other officers handle whatever catastrophe is happening today?”

His boss holds up an august hand, “Perhaps but, alas, I cannot locate Detective Sergeant Bordey despite my best efforts and so… I’m afraid not. This matter is exceedingly urgent and needs your special skills and delicate touch...” He pauses momentarily; eyes narrowing, head cocking, then continues with a faint smile, “However, I now recollect that you need 30 minutes to gird yourself appropriately. Shall I meet you once more at the station in, say, 45 minutes?”

Poole’s defiant arms-crossed stance slackens just a bit and he looks distraught at this request.

The Commissioner sees this and stifles a chuckle as he gusts out a deep breath and says magnanimously, “Oh, let’s give it a full hour as the situation is a particularly tricky one and I will need you sharp and on your toes. The fate of Sainte-Marie may very well rest on your shoulders today, Inspector.” Suddenly grave, he leans forward, holds up a thick finger, intoning, “One hour,” and fixes the damp man with a stern eye before executing a perfect snap turn and marching out the way he came. 

The little house seems to settle down with relief at the sound of the kitchen door slamming shut as the damp man slumps again onto the bathroom door jamb and passes a trembling hand over his brow. And, ALSO again, a naked wet Camille Bordey slides into view, face screwed up in wild amusement as she lays hands covetously upon the man, chuckling, “Do you think we fooled him THIS time?”

Eyes closed, hands massaging his temples, the man replies forlornly, “Not after you almost choked when he said ‘delicate touch’!” His eyes open and he straightens as he turns to her in response to her caresses, “But, I must say, I was pretty convincing this time, wasn’t I? After all, a man can only withstand so much unexpected company on his day off.”

She smiles, running a hand down his back, surreptitiously (so she thinks) loosening the towel, “I know, and I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t wait until tonight.” She peels the towel away triumphantly with a loud, “Aha!” but he doesn’t bat an eye and her teasing smile softens into something a lot more intimate. 

“Do you feel a draft?” is his droll response.

She nods, eyeing his healthy glowing skin, “Yes, I think I do,” and draws him back into the shower, turning the water on and murmuring, “And so, my beauty, let’s see how convincing you can really be!” As he takes her again in ardent embrace, she murmurs, “I already know you’re pretty.”

END


	2. Christmas Story 2020

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just couldn’t let the day go by without another visit to that little chalet tucked high up in the French Alps. Merry Christmas, everyone, hope you got the day you needed. Stay safe. S/P

Christmas Story 2020  
Camille sits back and says with quiet satisfaction, “How it glistens, how it gleams, how it pulses through all those lovely colours.”

He listens to this and turns his head, blushing mightily, “Oh god and all the little angels, how can you SAY such things?!” He shifts slightly and now she can see one gleaming green eye fixed on her as he mutters, “You’d better be talking about the Christmas tree, Camille.”

She blinks slowly then slides a glance over his shoulder to where the complementary little tree twinkles so prettily, shedding its soft light over the intimate room of this tiny chalet high in the French Alps, with the fireplace, the bear-skin rug, the good memories, and the newest addition… a bassinette. 

“Um, yeah,” she drawls as she looks back at her husband, the best present ever, especially when unwrapped, “Yeah, sure, the tree, of course, the tree. What else?”

He scoffs and hides his face once more, “Mmm-hmm, like I believe you, you minx.”

She grins evilly, leans in to whisper, “Where else would I see such wonderful trimmings?”

His blush is spreading like wildfire as he struggles not to laugh, “Oh, god, stop! Just stop, will you? Before I catch fire!”

She leans in further, “I’ll stop when I’m dead, mon Coeur. I think you know that.”

He uncovers his face and looks at her with perfect belief and trust, “Yes, I do know that. What IS it with you, hmmm? Isn’t a newborn supposed to take up all your energies and hormones? How can you still be…” He falters, wondering if he really wants to know after all.

She slouches back with a contented huff and tucks an errant strand of ebon hair behind a shell-like ear, “Oh, me? Well, yes, Armand takes up a lot of my time but YOU, you help, don’t you? All my married friends are jealous as hell over your husbandly skills.” His eyebrows fly up at this and she laughs at the betrayed look on his face, “NO! No, no, no! Oh, merde, do you think I actually talk about THAT? Oh, god, no. I mean how you pull your weight as a father; the night-walks, the bathings, the changings, everything. I think you probably hold him more than I do too.”

He twiddles a finger at her, “Well, except for the… the… um…” His eyes glow in the firelight.

She glances down at herself, sees she is filling up again, and sighs, “Ah, yes, except for the feedings. Well, if you are truly settled once more, would you mind bringing him? I hear him murmuring.” 

Richard shifts himself, stretches, stands, and gently scoops up his first-born son, his scion, the fruit of his loins, and a damn fine handsome baby boy to boot! Dark blue stormy eyes gaze sleepily up at him as he brushes a fingertip over a downy cheek, and mutters, “Do you think his eyes will change?”

Camille reaches for her Trésor, her gâteau sucré, her ange brillant, reveling in the velvety smooth skin and tiny silky hairs, the sweet smell and loving grace, the perfection and blessed proof that some human bodies are the purest result of divine creation. Then her hands slip off her husband’s arms and she takes her bébé, saying, “We should know sometime within the next three months, Cherie.”

As her big angel slips her little angel into her arms, Camille feels Armand switch his attention from his father to her. When he is with Richard, the baby is quiet, serene, almost contemplative. When he is with her, not so much. Right now he wriggles and begins to snuffle. Oh, yeah, he knows his job. As she brings him to her breast, Richard plumps the pillows and lays her back comfortably. She smiles up at him. She never has to ask. He just knows.

She tweezes a firm nipple and slips it between Armand’s lips, urging his jaws open just a tad wider so he can latch on properly. As his eyes roll up to study her, his hand brushes against her cheek and she sighs hard, “Ah, me, such is the life of a milk-cow with a new-born. Eat, sleep, poop, that’s all he does.”

Richard snugs down beside her, cradling Armand’s head with one hand, circling his wife’s shoulders with the other. He smiles tenderly and now he is the target of those inquisitive blue eyes. “That’s not ALL he does, darling. He studies everything. He listens, he looks, he smells, he touches, he tastes. At night I hear him humming, thinking everything over.” He kisses his wife’s shoulder, holding his son’s gaze, “And if I am the father I hope to be, he will also learn about love and devotion, loyalty and fidelity.”

Camille grumps, “If you were any kind of a father, you’d get me a beer!” Richard is gone like a shot, making his son blink in surprise, which makes Camille laugh. She taps the baby’s nose, “Don’t worry, sweetling, Papa is not magic. He only uses magic at home, on the job.”

Richard comes back into the room, a fresh cold beer in each hand. As he hands one over, he sighs, “This is a far cry from our last two visits here on our anniversaries, hey? Now we have company.” He holds up his bottle, “And beer! Tell me again why we need beer?”

Camille finishes glugging down her bottle and burps delicately, making Armand grin. A tiny rill of milk runs down Camille’s chest to be dabbed up by the attentive father as she answers, “We need beer so I can relax and keep up my milk supply, the nurses said so. And it seems to be working.” She hands back her empty and snap-clicks for his. He hands it over, it is emptied and then he is shooed away.

Richard sighs and takes the empties back to the kitchen, calling out, “So glad to be of service, ma’am!”

She makes silly faces to Armand and calls back, “Shush, you! As soon as he is done, we can go for our own supper. I’m starved!” A slight dimming of the firelight makes her look up to see her husband standing in front of the fireplace, feet slightly apart, hands on hips. He is limned in ruddy light and a most beautiful ruddy limning it is too! She gulps and covers her eyes, “Please! I got a baby here!”

He laughs low then crawls back into bed with her where she happily slips an arm around him. “Oh,” he murmurs, “I know, I know. Isn’t that why we came back here again? To try for the next one?”

She scoffs, “Oh, you! You know very well that a nursing mother almost never ovulates. Armand will have to be weaned first… and he’s a year or more away from that!”

He smiles, “Oh, I know that too. Still, no harm in trying, is there?”

She dodges and shoves him away, laughing, and looks down, “Ah, I see he is done once more. Here.” She juggles the drowsy baby into Richard’s arms, “You get him changed and dressed and I’ll take a quick shower.” As she edges out of bed she can hear him cooing to the baby but he also just has to speak up.

“Why do I have to dress him? Can’t he go wrapped in all seven blankets your mother sent?”

“Non,” she calls over the sound of running water, “he will grow up to know the proper usage of a good English suit, just like you did. Then, somewhere in the future, his to-be-wife will have all the pleasure of unwrapping him, just as I did you.”

Richard bobs his head over the fresh diapering going on under his excellent care. “Oh,” he says, feeling both chastised and praised at the same time. As usual, he’s not quite sure of her meaning but he can hear the love in her tone and that’s all that matters. By the time Maman emerges all fresh and steamy, she has two (well, one and a half) neat and tidy Englishmen waiting prettily. As Camille dresses, Richard sings soft Welsh lullabies over his son’s downy head where riotous curls are just starting to show. 

When they step out of the tiny chalet, Armand in Richard’s arms, they stand for a moment on the front step, looking up at the gently wafting snowflakes slowly cartwheeling down out of the night sky.

“It’s beautiful,” Camille murmurs, “and so strange. Imagine living where it snows all the time!” 

Richard shrugs, watching his son tracking the white crystal lattices, “It just means you need all kinds of different coats and boots and closet space to hold it all. And socks. You need socks.”

She laughs, “Yeah, think of all the new clothes I’d need! Everything fancy and bright!” She turns to her men and is puzzled by the odd look on Armand’s face. “What’s he doing?” she asks Richard. Richard doesn’t answer, just turns his son to face the world. They both watch as Armand opens his mouth and waits patiently for a snowflake to land on his tongue. His lips close and his dark eyes widen in surprise.

Richard turns the baby back and says softly, “Snow, Armand, eira.” Armand just gazes back quietly then looks to his mother.

Camille smiles, “Snow, Armand, neige.” Then she scoops up both males and chivvies them down the path towards food and warmth and the company of other humans. Not that they really need it, the company, for they are creating their own world and it is more than enough for them.

Within the hour they are back. Armand is asleep, having been bathed and changed and topped up with mother’s milk once more. Richard sits before the fireplace rubbing his shoulder and grousing, “You’d think that after three years and all the maintenance requests I’ve submitted that they’d have fixed that ruddy front door by now. Ow.”

Camille comes out of the kitchen, wine glasses in hand, “I bet you didn’t fill out those reports in French, did you?” and sinks down to his side in a fluid motion that makes him feel quite envious. _She’s so alive and vibrant and lithe and sexy! I still don’t see what she sees in me but I am never going to refuse her attentions and so…_ He leans back on one elbow, cocking a knee, and says in his best sexy voice, “So! The heir is asleep for his usual six to eight hours. However shall we fill in the down-time?” He waggles his eyebrows because he knows it amuses her.

She sips her wine and gives him a knowing look, “Well, I know we should sleep as I’m still not caught up from our trip but…” 

He puts down his glass and says slowly, “Buuuuut…?”

She puts down her glass and says sassily, “Buuuuut… I think maybe the little one didn’t quite finish his repast. Could you do me a favour and check?”

He lowers her down onto the bear-skin with a soft growl, “Oh, you bet, I can check like blazes!” and the fireplace burns steadily into the night. 

As do they.

Epilogue  
Four months later, Camille comes back from Dr. Johnson’s office with a funny look on her face. Richard looks up from the table where he is teaching Armand about mashed bananas with Harry’s help. He jerks to his feet, startling Harry up onto Armand’s shoulder, “What is it? Camille? Is it something more than a stomach bug? Should I take you to the hospital?”

She lays down her purse, stares out the kitchen window, “No, not for about five months yet.”

He rushes to her, arms out to take her into his protection, “You need to go to the hospital? OK, I can… I can…” he falters, his hands coming to rest on her waist as she turns in his arms to give him SUCH a look! He recoils slightly, a little frown between his brows, “What… what… why do you have to wait five months? How can Paul know you will be sick in five months? How is that possible?”

She huffs and encircles his shoulders with accepting arms, “Because I have a little time-bomb ticking away inside me and it is going to go off in five months, that’s why.” Now he’s looking more confused than ever so she taps him over his stomach, “And I’m going to blow up like a whale again, sorry.”

“Like a… a whale? Again? But the only time you got huge was when… when…” His eyes flare.

Now she drops her hand to tap him somewhat lower down, “Yes, mon étalon, I’m pregnant again. Dr. Johnson says not to worry about losing my milk but I WILL have to double my food intake. There goes the food budget.”

His face lights up and he swings her around in a complete circle, her feet never touching the ground as he laughs and shouts for joy to the utter amazement of their highchair spectators. Harry and Armand just give each other patient looks as they watch the couple sway about the room.

Finally, Richard puts her back onto her own two feet and warbles, “That’s great news! Great news! I can’t wait to tell my parents! What time is it in England right now?”

As he rushes for the phone, Camille drops into his vacated chair and continues the lesson of mashed bananas. She checks on her husband then sneaks a slice of mango in too, mashing it sufficiently so that Harry hops down to take quick bites. “There you go, fellows,” she murmurs, “something for everyone.” 

The lesson is over and all faces washed (even the tiny green one) when Richard saunters back into the room looking very pleased with himself. She looks up from the sink and shakes her head, “I don’t know why you get to gloat and brag and take all the credit! I’m doing all the work!”

“Yeah,” he huffs, his face shining, “but I’M the inseminator, aren’t I? Two babies in two years! Yowza!”

“Yeah,” she agrees, “yowza indeed. Oooo, all I hafta do is WALK through a room with you in it and I’m pregnant! Can’t you turn it off?” At his proud grin, she sighs, “I didn’t even tell you the most surprising thing about all this.”

He stills, goggles at her, “You didn’t? What could be more surprising than another baby so soon?”

“Well,” she drawls, “Dr. Johnson isn’t sure, he wants to do an ultrasound tomorrow, it has something to do with blood titres or something, I didn’t quite understand it, but he asked me if twins ran in either of our families.” At Richard’s stunned look she rushes on, “Now why would he ask me that, I wonder?”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Story 2018 is in Early Days Collection #2 and Christmas Story 2019 is in Sweet Days Collection #3, in case you’re wondering.


	3. Chapter 3

Tsunami  
She slips into bed in total darkness. She has groped her way like a blind thing into the room, undressed by feel, and somehow makes it all the way to the bed without stumbling whilst holding her breath and being as quiet as she can.

She hates working late into the night. She begrudges every single minute away from him. But the case is done and dusted (to quote a VERY disreputable source) so she has the entire day off with him tomorrow... a rare occurrence… rather like the aligning of the planets. And she knows what happens when major forces clash, doesn’t she? Yes, she most certainly DOES. Rogue waves… oh, mama… huge upheavals that destroy the peace and rearrange the furniture all over the place! She just hopes she can get enough rest now to join wholeheartedly in the mayhem later.

As she lifts the sheet, his sweet smell and body heat wafts past her and into the night air. She clenches her shut eyes tighter and steels herself. Once on her side of the bed with her back to him, she stills, settling within his biological orbit but just outside his aphelion. She dares go no closer lest she disturb his rest. She draws in a slow deep breath and wills herself to relax. _There, this isn’t so bad. All I have to do is fall unconscious. Lord knows, I’m tired enough. Sleep now, play later. That’s The Agreement._

But she can’t fall asleep. She can hear him breathing. He sounds so close. Well, he IS close so that’s an odd thought, isn’t it? He can be so silent… like he’s gone... which is another odd thought. _Come on, Camille, either he’s there or he isn’t. He can’t shift in and out of existence like some mythical creature!_

She suddenly thinks of ‘Schrödinger’s Cat’, the subject of an afternoon’s discussion while lounging on the veranda watching the sea. Oh, how his logical brain amuses her! She smiles as she thinks, _Hmmm, send a man to bed, cover him with a sheet, then slip into bed hours later in absolute darkness and… is he there or not?_ She grins, _Hey! I just invented a brand new thought experiment! I’m going to call it ‘Richard, yes or no?’._ It will be so much fun to tell him about it in the morning.

She listens again. She can hear the shushing waves and the soughing trees but not him. She could swear he’s not there now. After a few minutes she realizes that all this thinking and trying to sense his presence has awakened other urges. Now she needs to confirm his existence. She needs to touch him, cuddle him, soak up some of his magic. If she is very careful, she can achieve it but it’s a tricky business. She hates waking him up. He’s such a creature of habit. He never says anything but she knows. She edges over just the tiniest bit and pauses. Can she feel a slight increase in heat? Is the bed dipping down just a fraction more? She edges over another millimetre. Yes, she’s sure of it. _It’s like I’m circling a black hole, she thinks, any moment now I’ll make contact and then…_

His hand grips hers in the narrowing gap between them. She starts and freezes. _Is he still asleep?_ His hand slips up her arm. _Nope. He’s awake. Merde!_ She manages to whisper, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…” but he continues to pull her gently to himself. It’s like being tugged by tidal forces. She can’t resist. She slides across to him and is met by a gentle rogue wave… if there IS such a thing.

As she happily drowns in his invisible act of love, her last coherent thought is… _Not a rogue wave… a tsunami… a gentle swell that lifts you high and sweeps you away without harm… as long as you ride the wave… as long as you are part of the wave… as long as the wave is your best friend and trusted partner and lover supreme… as long as it is Richard Poole and no one else._  
END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's probably some deep dark psychological meaning to all this which I am ignoring as bet I can!


End file.
